


Morgue Files

by miriad



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Babies, Dean Winchester Needs Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Needs a Hug, Everything is a WIP here you have been warned, Found Family, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, I don't like her either, Implied/Referenced Torture, Iron Man 1, Kid Fic, M/M, Marine Corps Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series John Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Rhodey is the best, Sam and Dean have the ATA gene, Season/Series 03, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Wolf season 3, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Werewolves, character study more than anything, not actually the kid of any of the main characters but family doesn't end with blood, set between Winter Soldier and Age of Ultron I guess, steve rogers likes elvis presley music but think elvis the man was kind of a dick, warning for Jennifer if that's a thing you don't like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriad/pseuds/miriad
Summary: Adding bits and pieces that, while they aren't complete, I loved them and thought they had some value on their own, even if the story itself isn't done (and at this point, isn't likely to be finished or extended). Adding them here as chapters. Longer, more complete pieces may be added as separate pieces, as part of this "series".(This idea and description inspired by @rageprufrock's own 'Morgue Files' story- thanks to Pru for being brilliant and for leading the way.)
Relationships: Chris Argent/Sheriff Stilinski, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Kudos: 4





	1. iron man lives again

**Author's Note:**

> This was something I wrote almost immediately after seeing the initial Iron Man movie in 2008. I def. was leaning towards Tony/Rhodey but I never got the fic that far. I did like certain elements of this and couldn't quite let it go, but I couldn't quite move it forward, either.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s fine until he sees Rhodey. After everything, Tony kept walking, moving towards freedom (and a hell of a lot of fine, fine scotch), kept going. But it isn’t until he hears the helicopters, sees the flag on the side, watches Rhodey unfold himself from the back of the chopper that he knows for sure that he’s safe.

He’s fine until he sees Rhodey. After everything, Tony kept walking, moving towards freedom (and a hell of a lot of fine, fine scotch), kept going. But it isn’t until he hears the helicopters, sees the flag on the side, watches Rhodey unfold himself from the back of the chopper that he knows for sure that he’s safe.

He falls to his knees, like the rug has finally been pulled out from under him, and he chokes down a sob because he’s Tony fucking Stark and he doesn’t do that. But it’s pretty fucking tempting when Rhodey pulls him close and wraps an arm around him, talking to him about ‘safety’ and ‘home’.

He can’t breathe. He’s gasping, wheezing and it doesn’t help when they slide the oxygen mask over his face. He just pulled off the escape of the century- possibly ever- and it shouldn’t have worked. He knows his math, knows that all of his calculations were correct but, truth be told, all the math in the world can’t always account for crazies, for the random misfires or the poorly made equipment that he had to work with. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was going to die, he never would have even tested the math with real world applications.

And now, he’s free but holy shit, all of the possibilities, maybes and could be-s start rolling through his brain and he just can’t take it.

They get him on the chopper as quickly as they can after determining that he isn’t bleeding out or in danger of losing a limb. The whole time the medic is checking him out, Rhodey just keeps talking. Later, Tony can’t recall what he said, just knew that James’ voice flowed through all the memories of the rescue and the flight.  
Rhodey takes his hand, fingers twining together, and sits next to him. A warmed blanket wrapped around his shoulders and that’s all she wrote. Tony doesn’t remember anything else about the flight until they’re trying to load him onto a stretcher.

In the seconds between waking and understanding, Tony fights for his life. He’s tired of people touching him without his permission, of being pulled and pushed and told what to do. A part of him knows that he’s not in the same situation but another part of him sees the hands lifting him as danger. He kicks, he bites, he punches and claws, catching a chin, an eye, someone’s nose before Rhodey’s face flashes into view.

“Tony! Tony, man, you need to calm down!”

“Rhodey?”

“Tony, stop, okay? You need to stop! Let them help you. Let me help you.”

And he does. Stops fighting even though his body keeps screaming that it’s still in danger. He lets them move him, even though he twitches at every hand that isn’t Rhodey’s.

They want to look at his chest, at his heart. He draws the line. Explains as best he can why it’s there, what it’s doing. They want to crack him open but he puts the kibosh on that real quick. Promises to see his own doctor at the hospital in the US as soon as they get him back. His arm is messed up, he misses the exact diagnosis, but they wrap it and put him in a sling. Cuts, bruises and abrasions are cleaned and bandaged.

They want to know what happened to him. Three months, apparently, he was held captive and they want to know.

He doesn’t want to tell. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to mention that water, the hands, the people who had no issues with hurting him to get what they wanted. They did things that he will never tell another living soul about, doesn’t want to think about ever again. Tony’s body aches when he moves and there are scars across his skin that will always serve as a reminder of his time in Afghanistan. But he doesn’t want to explain them, doesn’t want to dissect his own captivity for the morbidly curious.

Instead, he tells Rhodey that he wants to go home. He can’t ask, not with words but Rhodey sees it in his eyes that he needs to go now, that he can’t wait any longer to leave.

They set him up in a small room without a window and he has to close his eyes when he lays down on the hospital bed. It’s too much like that cave, that terrible room with limited ventilation and no shower. He’s dirty as hell, smells like a corpse, which he almost became and suddenly all he can think about is a shower. How he wants one but isn’t sure he can actually take one, what with his arm all fucked up.

He wants to open the door to the hallway, wants to know that he can leave the room whenever he wants. Wants to leave it closed, to keep people out and yet he wants it open. Wants to know he can walk out the door of his own volition.


	2. going to california

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew as he cleaned out the bite that he was screwed. Utterly and completely. He went through the motions of potions and spells and herbs and special baths but Dean knew the reality of the situation.
> 
> He’d been bitten and he was going to turn. Simple as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set pre-series, when Sam was at Stanford and Dean and John were doing hunts on their own. 
> 
> This was written based off a prompt from the LJ community (JFC this is old) "Hoodietime" (see end notes for more details on that) but I was never able to pull the trigger and actually kill Dean, per the prompt. This was written on 04.01.2010, which would have been the day that episode 05x16 "Dark Side of the Moon" aired for the first time, which may have affected my willingness to actually finish this one, lol.

He knew as he cleaned out the bite that he was screwed. Utterly and completely. He went through the motions of potions and spells and herbs and special baths but Dean knew the reality of the situation.

He’d been bitten and he was going to turn. Simple as that.

Dad was off on a hunt of his own. Last night of the full moon had just passed, the Impala had a full tank of gas and Dean knew that he didn’t have nearly enough time to fix everything that he had let stay broken.

He was under no illusions that all this shit was his fault. Well, the bite- that might be his fault. But the thing between Dad and Sammy? That was their bullshit. Dean had been trying for years to get it cleared up and scraped clean but his brother and his father were too stubborn. 

Dean hadn’t seen his little brother in over two years.

“No time like the present,” Dean muttered to himself, carefully sliding a finger down the medical tape he’d used to keep the bandage in place. The bite ached but it tingled as well and Dean wondered if there was some sort of magic at work, healing him quickly so he’d be in great shape when he suddenly turned into a snarling homicidal monster.

Dean had a stash of silver bullets in a special case in the back of the Impala. They’d been dipped in holy water and blessed. Like most bullets, when applied in the correct way, they would kill anything. Dean just needed them to kill him.

Only, he couldn’t pull the trigger, not right now. Oh, he knew that there was something running through his veins that stank of demon and decay. He knew that if he wasn’t careful, he’d kill someone or a lot of someone’s. But he couldn’t force himself to load the gun and put the gun to his own head. His sense of self preservation, despite what Sammy would say, was too strong for that. And that was a problem.

As he cleaned up the wrappers and bits of extraneous tape, he thought about driving up to Stanford, slipping into town to see his brother. Have a few beers, have a few laughs and say goodbye to the kid without the kid actually knowing what he was doing. Sam would never let him die, Dean knew, and maybe that was why he needed to go. Stop and see the one person who would try to find a different answer to the one that Dean had already come around to. 

Why? Why go there? Dean knew that no one could fix him. And he knew that he could never ask Sam to end him. Could never ask the kid to put a bullet in Dean’s brainpan and stop the crazy training from rolling.

No, Dean wanted to go to Palo Alto because he needed to know Sam was okay. That he was eating alright and taking care of himself. Wearing a jacket when it was chilly, drinking enough water when it was too hot. Banging hot chicks who appreciated what Sam had to offer. Being alive and happy and doing all the stupid, normal things that Sam had complained about wanting since he had figured out just what it was that he did want.

Maybe after Dean knew that Sammy was safe, he could figure out how to end his own life, to keep it that way.

*******

The drive from Wisconsin to California was refreshing. Dean felt more alive than he had in years. He could sense more out there in the world that he’d been able to before. Could pick up scents easier which made food taste better. His eyes were sharper, able to pick out details from a much greater distance. It was pretty cool and utterly terrifying all at the same time.

It was a sign that he was right. He’d been turned. Werewolf. The word was heavy in his head and he refused to say it out loud, worried it would be as bitter in his mouth as it was in his brain.

The phone rang a few times, buzzing on the seat next to him. He ignored it and let it roll to voicemail. He knew it was his dad, knew that he’d had found something he wanted Dean to check out. Dean didn’t want to check it out. Not when his clock was running out. Not when he had no idea if Sam would see him, would listen. And he needed Sam to listen.

But then the guilt got to him and the next time he pulled over to fill up the tank, he listened to his father get increasingly more angry as Dean drove further and further away from him. It made Dean’s chest ache to ignore his father, to not listen when he was given a direct order. Knowing that he only had a short amount of time to make things right, he knew that he couldn’t have Dad mad or Sam would never be able to get through to the man. He needed Dad at least willing to listen to reason. 

“Dean, where the hell have you been?”

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, about that-“

“I don’t care how hot she was, Dean. You answer your phone when I call. Got it?”

“Yes sir.” Dean let his father rip in to him a bit more, his displeasure and disappointment clear as crystal over the line. He wanted to tell his father what had happened. What was going to happen. But he knew that it wouldn’t make anything better and that his father would only be more disappointed. He had trained Dean better than that, Dean could hear his father in the back of his mind yelling. He knew better and still, he’d gotten bit. Nope, Dean wasn’t going there.

“Since you’re already heading that direction, I need you to stop in Boise and take a look at a few sightings.”

As Dad droned on, voice sharp and cutting, Dean knew that he couldn’t ignore this request. Kids were dying and this was something that they could take care of. Dad was too far away, Dean was too close. He had to go. Dean sighed, the brush of the wind across his skin cool and distinct. If he closed his eyes, he could focus on the scent of smoke from a wood fire, leaves as they turned from green to red, the crispness of fall hanging just above everything. It was amazing and horrible and Dean wanted to cry.

*******

Boise took a lot longer than it should have. Dean’s new sensitivities made him nervous and he found himself second guessing every choice he made. Which made everything take much, much longer than it should have. Three more dead children and one dead rawhead and Dean suddenly was looking at less than two weeks before the next full moon.

The headaches started while he was hunting and while he was working, he just thought they were a part of the stress he was under. But now that he was back on the road and he’d killed that fucker, the headaches were still there. And then it was pretty clear that what they were really just another side affect of the bite. 

After the first day, he had to stop at a clinic and beg for something stronger than Advil. He ran the line about being on the road, out of his prescription, miles away from his GP. Wide eyed, projection innocence as best he could, the woman behind the counter took pity on him and had one of the nurse practioners write him out a script that he could fill at the nearest drug store. He wanted to kiss her but realized that it wasn’t the smartest of actions and held back.

The bite mark closed up faster than any injury Dean had ever had before but left behind a pink scar, puckered and tingly when he touched it. The closer it got to the full moon, the more the damn thing began to itch.

The food issues started a few days after the headaches. The way he needed the burger to be more and more raw, the red juices tasting so good when he ate them but the stomach aches that resulted just weren’t worth it. His body seemed to be fighting itself, different parts wanting to just accept what he was now, the other half still a hunter, fighting the supernatural till the end.

*******

He pulled into Palo Alto at three in the morning on a Wednesday. He felt like something was chasing him and it took almost everything he had to keep from looking back over his shoulder. The parking in Sam’s neighborhood appeared to be permit only and despite his general attitude about parking enforcement and the payment of parking tickets, Dean knew that after he was gone, Sam would have the Impala and he would never and could never leave his baby brother with more trouble than he needed to. 

There was a parking garage a few blocks away, near a shopping area that looked kind of touristy so Dean pulled in and parked his baby as far from any other cars as he could get away with. He grabbed his duffle from the trunk, making sure that he had the right gun and the right ammo, just in case.

He locked the car and headed back to Sam’s on foot. 

It was cooler than he thought it would be and the air was damp, sticking to his face and his hair, beading up on his leather jacket. His face felt wet. He blamed the fog and the mist. No way he was crying. Not a chance in hell. 

Dawn broke, the morning one of the more beautiful Dean had seen in a while and he could hear as people’s alarms went off and they started to rise for the day. He could smell coffee and eggs and bagels, practically taste them all on the air. He closed his eyes and tried to think about anything but where his life was headed but he couldn’t. 

After a while, he couldn’t sit on the front steps any longer, not wanting to run into anyone on their way to work or school or just the rest of their lives. Lives that even a month before he would have said were lame and ignorant to what was really out there but now he was beginning to see the merits of a boring life.

Sam’s apartment was up the stairs in a house that had been converted into a series of apartments. Dean could see little things here and there as he climbed up, where Sam had made some hunter improvements to the building.

It was ass o’clock but Dean was pretty sure Sam was up and around. Dean knocked with one knuckle, nervous about something that shouldn’t have ever been in question. He was visiting his brother, the only other person in the world who had any idea what it was like to be a Winchester kid and he was nervous. Dean hated himself a little bit right then. Just a little.

He could hear the footsteps- bare feet on carpet then wood flooring. Could hear Sam breathing as he looked through the peep hole and the sharp intake of breath when he realized who it was on the other side of the door. Dean could hear the chain slide away from the door and the deadbolt slide open. The creak of the hinges as the door swung open. The silence hanging between them as he met his little brother’s eyes, a few inches higher than where they were supposed to be.

“Dean, what the hell?”

“Hey, Sam. How the hell are you?”

“It’s early, man. I mean, good to see you but seriously, it’s-“

“I got bit, Sam.” The words flew out of his mouth like his suddenly close proximity to Sam made it impossible to keep his secret, plans and plotting be damned.

“What?” Sam’s fingers gripped the wooden door, his face tight. He looked like he’d taken a big suck off a lemon and Dean tried hard not to laugh. He knew if he started, it would only lead to crying and he couldn’t handle that. Not here, not now.

“Werewolf. I got bit. And I wanted to see you. Before, you know. I can’t any more.” Dean smiled and he knew that his eyes had filled. He begged his face to keep those tears from falling. Sam was stubborn and he was mad but he could never ignore Dean crying. And he hadn’t come for Sam’s pity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt pulled from Hoodietime community on 04.01.2010. Original prompt from @spiceblueeyes:  
> Dean, Sam-Gen or slash  
> While Sam is at Stanford and John is on another hunt, Dean takes out a werewolf on the last night of the full moon. Only he gets bit. He has one month before he changes, and he shows up at Stanford to see Sam one last time. Tell me how that goes!!!


	3. in the air, on land, and sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he made the Winchester boys a deal. Dean would join up, Marines, serve two years. Sam would work for Hendrickson, possibly in an investigative capacity. They would be free to go on their way when Dean’s service was done.
> 
> Hendrickson didn’t expect Dean to love the Marines. Didn’t expect the Marines to love him. And he never saw the classified project assignment coming. One day, he checked up on his boys, as he had started to think about them, and they were gone. Cheyenne Mountain, deep space telemetry or some damn such thing. Both of them.
> 
> Son of a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of a crossover project that I wanted to write, started to write, was never able to motivate myself to finish. I liked the idea of Jack and Dean in the same room, and the idea of Dean finding his place as a Marine. Taking care of people, PROTECTING people is his love language, and finding a legit way to do that not only for his country, for his fellow Marines, and for his brothers in arms, but for his brother would give him all the protecting he'd need to keep him happy and hopeful. 
> 
> Plus, Dean in a uniform is... DAMN. Sam in dress whites would be great, but he'd have to cut his hair, sooooo, we'll just leave that one in the dream bank.

Funny thing, the FBI. Agent Hendrickson was a mean, crazy bastard but in the course of hunting down the Winchester brothers, he learned a few things. Monsters were real, Dean could be a mean son of a bitch but he wasn’t a serial killer, and revenge could be very, very sweet even when it was hot and juicy.

So it boiled down to this. Hendrickson could agree that Dean wasn’t the nasty guy that everyone thought he was but he couldn’t let him go scot free. Hendrickson had a friend in the Bureau who did a lot of work with a marine, a former gunny sergeant who ran his own office at NCIS. Was always complaining about Marines and their ilk. Hendrickson had an idea.

So he made the Winchester boys a deal. Dean would join up, Marines, serve two years. Sam would work for Hendrickson, possibly in an investigative capacity. They would be free to go on their way when Dean’s service was done.

Hendrickson didn’t expect Dean to love the Marines. Didn’t expect the Marines to love him. And he never saw the classified project assignment coming. One day, he checked up on his boys, as he had started to think about them, and they were gone. Cheyenne Mountain, deep space telemetry or some damn such thing. Both of them.

Son of a bitch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

So it went down like this. Dean made his way in the Marine Corps like he was born for it. Made a lot of his commanding officers happy, did what he needed to do. Ended up at a fancy function for raising money for saving babies or whatever and Dean could get behind that. He was part of the guard for the party, keeping an eye out on the all big wigs, including a few generals from other branches of service.

Dean had done what he could to protect his fellow marines from things that go bump in the night, kept his eyes open for the nasties that tended to haunt bases and sites of old battles. He’d done okay, gotten a few, had Sam come in and take care of a few more. But always vigilant, right?

It was at that party that Dean Winchester made a name for himself, just doing what he had always done. Saving people. Hunting things.

It was the girl first, slinky and exotic but off, in the way that made him think were- or maybe vamp but he needed more info. He was at an assigned position but made signals to another member of his unit and changed positions. He followed her across the room, far enough behind but close enough to see. She passed a tall man with dark, spiky hair and smiled this sly, come hither look that made Dean’s toes curl in his well polished boots. 

“Somebody’s getting busy.” Dean mumbled to himself, wishing that he had hit something that hot. That is, until he noticed that her eyes were glowing. It wasn’t for very long, just a quick flash of gold, but he saw it. Saw the answering flash in tall, dark and spiky’s eyes as well. Something was not kosher.

Dean found his entire unit in various locations around the room, verified positions and where the highest ranking officers were currently located. What weapons were available and how he could get them to one of the side hallways to get more info and possibly take care of the situation.

Slinky Girl and Spiky Guy had linked arms by this point and were making their way towards the ext and the series of hallways that led to deeper parts of the building. Dean followed. And out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that he wasn’t the only one. 

Two Air Force officers- Colonel and General from the looks of things- slid through the crowd, moving in sync across the party. Dean couldn’t really see their eyes, couldn’t tell if they were with the gold ones or not but decided that he couldn’t count on the unknowns and made his own way.

He hit the hallway less than thirty seconds after his prey but they were already gone. Out of view of the big wigs, Dean got down to business. Two guards stood by the exit and he motioned to them but they hadn’t seen anyone leave. That left two hallways, one of which was in plain sight of the exit and they hadn’t gone that way or they would have been spotted. 

So, door number two. 

He was fast, always had been, but the Marines had made him faster. He fought the urge to run a hand through his buzz cut, to feel the soft short hairs kept that way by Uncle Sam’s finest barbers. He was working here, damn it. His boots made no sound on the floor, maybe a soft squeak that he could barely hear. The clicking of high heels were off in the distance a head of him, sure sign that Goldie had come this way.

But a noise behind him made him slide to the side, hug the wall and find a doorway to hang out in the shadows. A quick look behind him revealed nothing but he knew that he wasn’t alone. Didn’t feel like a ghost, not that cold, hair standing up on the back of your neck kind of feeling. But something… Dean kept going, wishing that had had something a bit more substantial than the Beretta 9 mil- standard issue but not nearly as good as what he had in his trunk.

A fork in the hallway, not quite a T but he turned left, the sound of shoes clicking still leading him forward. This hall was dark, so the light from the open doorway stood out, a beacon leading the way to something not right. Voices came from the room, deep and unnatural sounding. Crap. 

He took position at the door, gun drawn. He watched Goldie and her boyfriend make out for a bit, then talk into what looked like a solid gold… thing that talked back to them. Some sort of radio, Dean thought, not recognizing any part of the design. Their eyes were glowing full on now, gold and shiny and creepy.

Before he could move forward into the room, Dean could feel someone behind him. He turned, silently, to face them, weapon out, not knowing friend or foe. It was the General, Air Force, salt and pepper hair. Smiling that smile that said that Dean was in a mess of trouble.

The General didn’t say anything, just motioned for Dean to lower his gun. The General raised a weapon of his own, some weird snake looking thing, and made weird movements with his eyebrows. Hand signals and Dean knew that the General was on top of things. Even if Dean himself did not know what those things were. The Colonel slid around the General, her own snakey weapon in hand. 

On a silent count of three, they both stepped into the room and fired their weapons. It sounded like something from Buck Rodgers but Dean had heard and seen much weirder things so he waited in the hall, the Corps teaching him that he didn’t always have to know, to see what was going on. 

A hand on his shoulder and a good natured grin brought Dean back from thinking too hard. The General was smiling, much friendlier now, dress hat cocked jauntily on his head.

“Well, kid, I think you and I need to have a conversation.”

“Were they demons?”

“Huh. Wasn’t expecting that one. Carter? They demons?”

“Not that I know of sir.”

“There you go. Not the conversation I was planning, though, so you’re not off the hook.”

“Sir… I have experience with this sort of thing-“ Both the General and the Colonel snapped hard looks at him, suddenly suspicious. “Demons and, you know, stuff like that. I’ve… hunted them before. So, really, I can take care of this.”

“Now I think we really need to talk. Carter, call the car please.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sam Winchester was both thrilled with his new job and mortified that he had gotten it not for any sort of achievement (although Dean would say that being on the FBI’s most wanted list *was* an achievement) but because he had been blackmailed into it. It was annoying and wrong and he didn’t have any sort of footing with which to improve the situation.

Although his access to various information systems was amazing and the type of work he as doing was actually making a difference, he still felt the chafe of being collared. He wondered if this was how his dad had felt when they were stuck in one place for school or because of an injury. He felt a bit more empathy for his father, which was a mixed blessing now that Dad was gone but, well, it was something.

Sam got regular reports from Dean about what was going on in the Corps. Dean had taken to it like a duck to water, mostly because the weapons that he had legal access to made him very, very happy. Sam wondered if Hendrickson was annoyed that Dean was so damn happy or if this was what he had wanted from the beginning.

Sam had a day to day routine, the same basic schedule that was so normal- what he had supposedly always wanted- and yet he wasn’t all that happy. He didn’t get to run things by his brother, he didn’t get to personally follow up on any of the clues and info that he pulled up and he had to wear a tie. Every day. He could have never pulled off the lawyer bit and this was just another nail in the coffin of that dream.

The routine goes out the window on a Tuesday. He’s sitting in his cubicle, working on a missing persons report that may actually be part of a series of hauntings in the Mississippi River Valley. He’s got headphones on, listening to Radiohead and humming to himself when the light gets blocked. Turning to chew out the asshole who just had to get in the way, Sam sees that there is not just one but two high ranking Air Force officers standing in the entryway to his cubicle. One of them, it looks like, is a Colonel- female, hot, heading towards middle age-and the other is- holy crap- a General. Tall, craggy, salt and pepper hair.

“Can I help you?” He tries for nonchalant but it comes out a bit choked. He wants to play it cool but he’s been off his game since the whole “getting caught by your worst enemy” thing happened. The tie is not helping.

“Are you Samuel Winchester?” The Colonel talks, the General just looks bored. Sam schools his face- he’s a poker player and a con artist on some level, he can do this.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“We need to speak with you, sir. In private.”

“May I ask what this is regarding.”

“You have a brother, Dean Winchester?”

“I do.”

“Then you’ll want to come with us. Right away.”

“Is Dean okay?”

“Mr. Winchester, your brother is fine but we do need to speak with you right away.”

“Okay, sure. I guess.” Sam misses his weapons, the knives and the guns and the flamethrower- well, maybe not that but the sentiment is right. He feels naked without something to protect him, to defend others. It’s been almost a year and that feeling hasn’t gone away. He doesn’t know what’s going on but he’d love to face it fully armed. He guesses that’s why Dean’s okay with this whole set up. He, at least, gets access to a shit load of guns and C4.

The General still hasn’t said anything, just fiddles with Sam’s name tag, flipping it upside down in the sliding holder. An odd thing for a high ranking official to do but not the kind of odd that Sam investigates. He stands up and pulls on his jacket- another thing that he won’t miss once Dean’s time in the Corps is done (please, please, please, Dean, don’t re-up, don’t re-up!) and follows hottie Colonel out of the cubicle farm, the General behind him. It’s very disconcerting.

Hendrickson watches all of the proceeding from his office, the Venetian blinds drawn up, skipping any pretense of subtly. He narrows his eyes at Sam, watching but not getting up to ask just what the hell is going on. Sam figures that the stars on the General’s shoulders make Hendrickson a little bit lower on the food chain and that’s not something that even the FBI agent is willing to mess with.

They haven’t introduced themselves, haven’t given any names. Sam knows their ranks because he’s done research when Dean got shanghaied into the Corps but beyond that he has not idea why they would want him, what Dean would have had to do to get in trouble with the freaking Air Force. The General’s name tag reads ‘O’Neill’, the Colonel reads ‘Carter’ but they could have been Butch and Sundance for all that good it did him.

They take the elevator down to the parking level, no one asking for badges or ID as they leave, the uniforms enough to get almost anywhere in the Hoover Building. There’s a long, black limo idling just outside the entry way and another uniformed officer hops out of the front to open the doors for them. Carter motions Sam to get in and he does with reluctance. This is always the point where the guy gets into the car and never comes back.

He knows that if he really wanted to, he could cause a scene. He could fight and try to break away but what would that get him? They dropped Dean’s name and while he’s getting sick and tired of being pulled by that particular string, he knows that he can’t call them out because if he’s wrong, Dean’s life could be at stake. And he’s been there, done that, thank you very much. Never again and never because of him.

So he slides into the car and almost has a heart attack when he sees Dean leaning back against the posh leather seat. He’s in BDU’s and sipping on a coke.

“Dean, what the hell is going on?”

“Sammy, dude, just get in.”

“Dean!”

“Mr. Winchester, would you please take a seat?” Carter pipes up from behind him, her voice making him jump.

“Yeah, Sammy. Have a seat.” Dean waggles his eyebrows and pats the leather next to him. It’s still weird to see him with that jarhead haircut but it’s good to see Dean at all. It’s been a while. The Colonel and the General climb in behind them and the door shuts with a soft click. Sam feels like he’s in the Twilight Zone and he’s killed freaking werewolves and vampires.

The General rubs his hands together, showing the first signs of any sort of animation or personality. He grins, sly and very Dean like, now that Sam thinks about it.

“So, kids… let’s talk.”

*******

Sam was ecstatic. Getting his geek on, in Dean terms. Aliens? Really? Dean could only roll his eyes and groan, while inside he was totally freaking out himself. However, as a Marine, he was no longer allowed to do that. At least, not in front of other people.

Both Sam and Dean have the ATA gene. Not sure where that came from and not sure why that really matters but it’s caused the military to up the timeframe for their departure to Colorado. Apparently they are needed on a mission that is set to leave, whatever the hell THAT means, by the end of the week. 

They’ve been told to gather all their personal items, set any bills and whatnot to automatic payments- the government will be directly depositing their paychecks into their (legitimate) accounts. Hazard pay, supposedly. Sam has no idea what that means but from the talk around the mountain, they won’t be hurting for money when they get back. Sam isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or not.

They’ve been put up on base, deep in the bowels of the mountain. They’re sharing a room- Dean thought it would be better, not for him but for Sam’s well being. Sam, it seems, doesn’t like the idea that there is a heavily armed marine standing guard outside of their room.

“What?” Dean asks, grinning. “You’ve got a heavily armed marine IN your room, too, jackass. Scared?”

“I just don’t like not being able to leave. Feels like, I don’t know, when we were in prison.”

“Dude, not like that. Food’s way better here.”

“That’s not saying much, Dean, and really, really not the point.”

“Sammy, they haven’t read us in yet-“

“Read us in? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, man, this is a classified mission. You get that, right? You have to be given clearance and then they have to read you into the file- they hold a meeting and tell you the secrets and threaten to kill you if you tell anyone else who isn’t read in.”

“And you know who’s who how exactly?”

“You don’t. Rule number one- you don’t talk about fight club.”

“This is crazy.”

“And how, exactly, is this crazier than the life we’re used to leading? Huh?”

“We’re sleeping under a mountain, Dean! That’s a bit nuts, wouldn’t you say?”

“I say we should ask Jimbo out there to escort us to the mess and get some grub.”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” 

“Sammy, look, they’re going to let you in on everything tomorrow afternoon, after they make sure that you’re good to go on the mission. Once they play doctor, they’ll spill the beans and you’ll get your panties out of that twist. Okay? Stop whining.”

***

Dean has a thing for the blue jello in the commissary. Apparently it’s the Greatest Thing Ever. Sam has a hard time eating anything in a color not existing in nature. Apparently Colonel Carter has the same jello fetish. Sam believes that it’s part of Dean’s plan to get in the Colonel’s pants. Not that he has any chance in hell of doing so. Sam can tell that the Colonel has a thing for the General and the General, well, he’s a bit of an enigma. But Sam has a few theories on that as well.

That take up the table in the back corner, empty because it’s so damn late but a few other folks populate the room. About three tables over, two men- one military in everything except the hair cut and the other obviously one of the scientists that seem to have swarmed all over Cheyenne Mountain- are eating and, apparently, in the middle of a lovers spat. Not that they’re really talking about THAT but Sam can tell. He’s good like that.

Dean’s ignoring them as best he can but his eyes flick over every now and again- Sam’s been watching. The military guy isn’t very loud, Sam can’t hear anything that he’s saying but the scientist- that guy has some pipes. He’s yelling, something about zedpeems (whatever that is- Sam’s not asking, as he hasn’t been ”read in”. God.) or something, hands flailing in the air. He looks like he’s conducting a symphony or having an epileptic seizure. It’s a toss up.

Sam leans forward, bending over his bowl of bland soup that wishes it were chicken noodle.

“What do you think their story is?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Dean slurps at his jello, his tongue already stained blackish blue.

“You do so care. I can tell.”

“I can’t care, Sammy. Don’t ask, don’t tell, you know.”

“Please, that’s so draconian! You can’t tell me that you actually believe-“

“Dude, you know better than that. But I know better that to ask the question that can get me kicked out to bring up the answer that will sure as shit get him kicked out. God, Sam, learn to play the game, will you?”

“The ‘game’? Seriously?”

“Eat your soup.” Dean’s eyes flick over again but he catches himself and focuses on the jell-o. 


	4. turned my whole world upside down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She heads to the Roadhouse. Ellen will know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story notes at the end of the chapter.

He’s a handsome guy, a little bit older than she normally goes for but good looking and willing to buy her that extra shot at the bar. She’s cool with that, able to accept that she’s easy and both of them know it but she’s going to have a great time. He is gorgeous.

He’s gone in the morning, not that she’s surprised but she is a bit disappointed. She has a thing for blue eyes and dark hair, long backs and long legs and this guy? Yeah.

She stops thinking about him after about five hours, picking up the trail of a spring heel jack and losing herself in the hunt, in the chase. She forgets about him until she misses her first, then second period. She never even got his name.

She can’t bring herself to abort the baby, to end something good like she does the evil that roams the earth. There’s just something inside her that screams it’s a bad idea, that she would regret it forever if she does and she wonders if it’s divine intervention or the ghost of her mother reminding her that her great fear is to be totally alone. Here’s her chance to start over, to have her own family, to raise someone who would love her, no strings attached.

She thinks that it won’t be a problem because, seriously, how hard could kids be?

*******

Pretty fucking hard, as it turns out, and she isn’t having the easiest of times taking care of the kid and trying to hunt down the evil that preys on the living and the weak. The baby keeps her up until all hours, takes away all her sleeping time that she would have had to regain her strength. It makes her sloppy, it makes her weak and in the end, it gets her bitten. By a werewolf.

She has, by her count, thirty days to figure something out. If she can, she swears that she’ll quit, that she’ll stop hunting until the baby is older, until she has someone to help her or someplace to stash the kid. The only thing is, she has never heard of anyone with a cure for lycanthropy. If there was one, then she wouldn’t be hunting the fucking things, she’d be helping get them to a doctor. 

So, in her heart of hearts, she knows that she’s fucked be she can’t- won’t- give up the chance that maybe, just maybe there is something to save her.

*******

She heads to the Roadhouse. Ellen will know what to do.

They don’t tell you that the moon will make you do crazy things when the blood starts to sing. It takes away reason and logic, replaces it with wants, needs, desires that the average person has no clue how to manage. She can smell the baby, and not in a dirty diaper kind of way, but in the way that she imagines dogs do, wolves. She knows the baby is clan, is pack, is family and that she can’t hurt it and yet… the small of human, of meat and blood singing through veins is tempting.

She’s made it as far as the Roadhouse parking lot but she can’t go inside. It’s too close to dark, too close to the full moon for anyone who has a fucking clue to not pick up on what she is. She’s going to turn, she knows it and luckily for her, one thought filters through all the animal that has invaded her brain. Take care of the kid, get the baby to a safe place, hide her away, give her to someone who won’t let you kill her. It’s a mantra in her skull, tapping away, keeping her occupied while the fur begins to grow under her clothes. They’ll last for a little bit longer but she knows that when she changes, she’s going to hulk out and her favorite Levi’s are going to go the way of the Dodo.

She picks the first car that she sees, a classic that looks well maintained, and she swings the back door open, sliding the baby carrier inside. She fastens the seat belt through the loops, making sure that she can’t just reach in and pull the kid out if worse comes to a whole hell of a lot worse. She knows that she doesn’t have much time and wants to put as much distance between her and the Roadhouse as possible but can’t seem to leave. She’s leaving her kid and through all of this crap, she hasn’t done that, hasn’t given up on the idea that this baby is her family and that means something. She’s not sure that she can do it now, even if it means that she could kill her.

There are voices and she knows that she can’t stay any longer, so she takes to the thin trees along the backside of the parking lot. She knows that she should run but she can’t do it, not yet. Two men, one freakishly tall, the other handsome, almost beautiful, round the corner of the building, arguing about something inane. They climb into the classic car, the car with her baby, and they drive it away. She can’t move.

She has just done one of the dumbest things that she can ever think of doing, and she’s been knocked up and bitten by a werewolf. And she doesn’t care. Because the moon is up now and she hunches over as her body morphs into something unnatural and dark. The baby is gone, only a faint whiff of her left in the air. She turns and runs, opening up her speed under the moon. She howls for others of her kind and hears nothing in return. Good. The grounds are her and hunting should be good. 

*******

Dean refuses to let Sam drive. He’s had a beer and that boy is too much of a lightweight to trust behind the wheel of his baby. It was good to be back at the Roadhouse, after all that had been said and done between Ellen and himself. Jo was still gone, off learning how to be whatever it is she thought she should be. Dean knew her goal was hunter but he felt that there was something else that Jo should be and could be doing. Supernatural, yes, but hunting, not quite.

Still. He worries. Not that he’d tell Ellen or Sam but it’s a part of him, the part that grew up at the age of four, that took on responsibility of others above and beyond what anyone else could have or would have ever asked.

Sam debates with him on the beer thing but Dean won’t budge, despite the fact that he had more to drink than Sam. That is, as Dean points out, not hard to do and Dean knows his own limits better than anyone, save Dad. And that kills the conversation right there.

Sam falls asleep, his one beer knocking him out, hopefully for the rest of the car ride.

The radio is on, but low, classic rock playing but it’s more mid-career Beatles than Nazareth or Zeppelin. He checks the mileage, the gas, and what the temperature gauge is telling him. A flash of light makes him check the rearview mirror- another car just turned on the road behind him. Not a cop. Awesome. Dean hits the accelerator a bit harder, knowing that the gas will last a little bit longer, at least past the state line, and he keeps on driving.

He never notices the baby in the back seat, sleeping peaceful and quiet. The sound of the car, of Dean’s voice singing along with Paul, John, George and Ringo keeps her happy and dreaming, below even a seasoned hunter’s radar.

The moon shines bright and full above them.

*******

They stop just over the state line for gas and breakfast. Dean smacks Sam awake, tells him to fill the tank, that he’ll get the goodies for the morning.

He gets a few coffees, some twinkies and a few breakfast burritos that look like they’ve only been there a day. Maybe two. He sniffs at the wrappings and they smell okay so Dean takes them. He grabs a bag of peanut M&M’s for himself, a few power bars for Sammy and some cokes, for later in the day.

He exits the Gas’n’Go to find Sam staring through the back window of the Impala.

“Dude, what the hell? Gas’n’Go, man!”

“Dean, is there something that you wanted to tell me and you just forgot?”

“Other than you’re a total space cadet? No. Nothing I can think of.” Dean reaches the car at that point and peers into the Impala to see what the hell has Sammy’s panties in a twist. On the backseat is a baby carrier and looking up at him with wide, blue eyes is a baby. Just as soon as the baby sees Dean, her face scrunches up and she begins to wail in a tone that Jimmy Page would envy.

“Son of a bitch.”

**~~**

They end up back at Ellen’s because that’s the only place that they can think of that they would have picked up a baby and not have known it. Ellen has no clue who she belongs to. And it is a she.

Dean, despite any protestations to the contrary, is incredibly good with kids, with babies. There was no baby bag so he had bought a few supplies at the Gas’n’Go and changed her on the back seat of the Impala, warmed up a bottle with a mug of scalding hot water originally intended for tea. Dean has never been able to just let a baby cry and he cannot stand anyone who would let a kid starve or sit in her own filth because no one knew who the hell the kid belonged to. It goes against everything that Dean stands for and so Sam gets to watch his brother go all Mr. Mom in the parking lot of a Midwestern gas station.

Back at the Roadhouse, Dean paces, baby asleep on his shoulder. He’s pissed, as much as he ever gets regarding people who aren’t his immediate family. There is an ingrained response in everything he’s doing, things that Sam is sure Dean has done for him in the past, when they were little and Dad had lost his mind. Dean knows what babies need, knows what to do and knows how to improvise when there isn’t any money to buy the fancy teething rings.

The baby, who doesn’t have a name yet but Dean has taken to calling her Layla, is asleep on Dean’s shoulder, drooling slightly on the well worn flannel but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Ellen doesn’t know anyone with a new baby, or even kids under the age of five. She hasn’t seen anyone through this way with a baby, not even the tourists that stop in by accident. The fact that the carrier was belted in leads her to believe that someone purposefully left the baby in the car.

“Why us, Ellen?”

“Maybe they didn’t know who they were leaving the kid with?”

“So this could be random. Nothing to do with hunting at all.”

“Didn’t say that. Could be that they knew that the chances were high they were leaving the baby with a hunter and it didn’t matter which one.”

“You and I both know that no hunter doesn’t think it matters.”

“Well, desperation does crazy things to people.”

“Maybe they thought that if worse came to worse we’d at least bring the kid in to you, Ellen.”

“Why wouldn’t they do that in the first place?”

“Maybe they couldn’t.”

Sam has been looking all over that stupid carrier, trying to find any clue as to who Layla really is, who she belongs to. He’s been taking it apart, unsnapping the cloth lining to reveal the plastic and metal innards. Where, in grease pencil, carefully left so that the baby in the seat wouldn’t smudge them, is a series of runes, possible wards. Sam hasn’t seen these particular ones before but he knows that they mean something.

“These mean anything to you?” 

Ellen shakes her head no, but Dean looks like he may have something.

“They look familiar but I couldn’t tell you from where. Ash around?”

They get Ash on it. He takes a few pictures, scans of the car seat and retreats back to his hole. Ellen pulls out a few books that her husband had stored upstairs and Sam takes to Dad’s journal. Dean, never one for research, takes care of the baby. He seems to like it.

~~

She finds herself naked in the woods, bitten and bleeding, covered in blood that she can still smell and she knows that it’s not her own. At least not all of it. The bites aren’t human, aren’t from any animal that she’s ever seen with human eyes. They’re love bites, welcome to the club bites and she grimaces at the thought of what that means. Her mouth tastes funky, awful, like rotting meat and in an instant she knows exactly what the taste is.

She vomits against the trunk of a tree and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her clothes are no where to be found.

Not. Good.

She doesn’t recognize the area, doesn’t know the trees or the vague shape of buildings to the east but she knows it’s civilization so she heads towards it and starts to think of a cover story that won’t get her arrested for indecent exposure or sent to the crazy farm. She’s glad she can’t see herself yet, because if she could, she’d know that neither of these things are even remotely possible at this point. She’ll get the prison loony bin and that’s if she’s lucky. She forgets that most people, normal people, have no idea what she is, what she can do or just how dangerous a creature like her can be. She forgets that makes her even worse.

~~

Dean and Ellen are fighting over the baby through clenched teeth while the kid looks on in stunned silence.

“Are you saying that because I’m a dude, I can’t take care of this kid?”

“I’m saying that you need to be out there, finding her mother and it’s a hell of a lot easier to do that if you aren’t dragging a damn baby around!”

“Dad and I did just fine when Sammy was a baby-“

“Your dad didn’t have help and he wouldn’t have taken it even if it had been offered- trust me, I tried. So what I am telling you is that right now, we need to find who this kid belongs to and it’ll be a damn sight easier to find Mama if you aren’t dragging baby with you!”

It looks like the makings of a knock down, drag out and Sam steps closer to his brother, arms out to catch the kid, to grab her before something violent happens and Dean does something that he’ll regret.

It stops before it ever really got started when Ash busts through the door, face white, eyes wide and dark.

“We got trouble. Werewolf.”

“How do you know?” Ellen, changing trains of thought on a dime, spinning on her heel to face Dr. Badass. It’s not accusatory, it’s a real question- what are the clues, what are the signs? He fumbles with a stack of printouts, shuffling through his notes to find what she wants. 

Dean steps back into the shadows a bit, out of sight, out of mind, except for Sam who watches with narrowed eyes. Dean can be sneaky, can be devious when he feels he’s cornered and no one lately has been as good at cornering Dean as Ellen, excepting maybe Sam himself. He won’t let Dean rabbit on him, not with a kid, not ever. He keeps an eye out but listens to Ash.

“A man was found, killed by what looks like an animal attack- wild dog, maybe a wolf coming from the woods. His throat was ripped out, major organs missing, presumed to have been eaten.”

“So, you’re assuming-“

“It’s been a wet summer, fall, there’s plenty of good eatin’ out there. No reason for a wolf to attack a human, not when there is easier prey out there. No, this is something else.”

He’s got photos- Sam has no idea how Ash got a hold of those and he doesn’t want to ask- and it has the distinct look of a werewolf. If you know what to look for.

~~

They don’t tell you what it feels like to hold your baby in your arms for the first time, to watch their tiny hands, their little feet move and grasp, mouth working, eyes squeezed shut. They don’t tell you because there aren’t words for that, aren’t fragments or sentences that can convey just what it feels like, what it means.

She knows the second that she holds her baby girl that there is nothing in this world or the next that will keep them apart. She’s spent her life avenging her father and her brother, the mother that she never knew. Now, however, she feels the purpose of her life shift, change to something that isn’t moored to the past but is based on the future. Everything from this point forward is about the little baby in her arms and the future that lies wide and sprawling before her.

~~

In the end, it’s all about what you’re willing to do for your kids, what you’re willing to give up, to make sure that they get where they want to go. Or maybe, more importantly, where they need to go. It’s about sacrificing yourself to make sure that they have a chance, even knowing that they might never understand what you did or why you did it. What they think or feel is nothing, as long as they’re alive to feel and think it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was started with the intention of being a big bang story, the theme was werewolves. Clearly, I didn't make it far enough to finish and submit. 
> 
> I've always loved the "A Cop, A Mountie, and a Baby" episode of due South and thought about what that would look like for SPN. I started this in the summer of 2010, just before the episode 06x02 - Two and a Half Men, where we saw just how wonderful Sam and Dean were (and weren't) with babies. I think that episode fulfilled my "Dean + Babies" need and I was able to move forward, but I like a lot of what's here and, despite forgetting where I was going with the actual werewolf plot, think there could be more to do, although I can't seem to think of anything at the moment. 
> 
> Leaving this as a WIP for the time being.


	5. untitled sheriff stilinski/chris argent story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris brings the bottle to his lips and drinks straight from it, a long, hard pull of whiskey that he drinks like it's root beer, not even a shudder of his shoulders to show that he felt it go down. He chugs it, Chris does, like water, slamming the bottle down on the table, the level of liquid now closer to empty than it was before, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, taking a deep breath.
> 
> "Feel better?" John asks with a smile, trying to hide his surprise.
> 
> "Had to catch up, didn't I?" Chris asks, lips curling into a matching grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this when we still didn't know the Sheriff's name and fanon had decided on John. *shrugs* I'm sticking with what I've got, lol.

Jennifer really wants the Sheriff more than she wants anyone else because of his undying love for his wife. She's been dead for eight years and he still wears his wedding band. 

Not only that, but he has remained faithful and has not touched another since her death, despite being tempted by Melissa McCall. His faithful love and devotion on top of his great sorrow is an incredible power that, if offered up willingly, would give Jennifer exactly what she needs to defeat Ducalion.

Unlike the other lives that she's taken, she can’t just TAKE this life- he has to OFFER it or the power will be wasted. Which is why she's been manipulating Stiles and his friends, including Derek (who is a powerful, although less so than the Sheriff, piece) on her chess board. 

She realizes she needs to take the Sheriff in order to get Stiles into position, so that the Sheriff will throw himself on the grenade for his son. 

She takes Melissa McCall because she needs a healer, and she needs another guardian, just in case, and because she needs the one thing that will make Scott McCall do what she wants him to do. Melissa kills a lot of birds with one stone. 

What she doesn't expect is for Chris Argent to throw himself on the grenade first. 

He gives himself up and after she knocks him out, she cleans out his weapons caches, of which there are quite a few. More than she would expect a person to be able to hid on a body that slender. She drags him down into the Nemeton with the Sheriff and Melissa McCall and realizes that she's got all three parents- the Trifecta!- and leaves.

As she's going, she realizes that Argent loved his wife and lost her, too. And while he hasn't been living with the guilt, with the loss, for as long as Stilinski, he's been as faithful, as loyal, as Stilinski has.

And he just willingly gave himself to her for a sacrifice.

She's not sure if she'll get quite as big of a boom out of him, but it will certainly be bigger than whatever she'll get out of Derek, and she'll take that any day of the week.

*******

"You're an idiot, Argent, that's for damn sure."

"What, because I came down here prepared?"

"You might have shown up here prepared, but she sure took care of that before you made it into this basement!"

"Gentlemen," Melissa says, her voice heavy with that mom tone that John is so familiar with. It's the same one she directs at Scott and Stiles, and it grates on him in a new way, now, that it never did before. He guesses it's because it was never aimed at him before. "We need to get out of here. I don't care how you do it, but I would prefer we do it before I make a mess on the floor that I end up sitting in for a day and a half. We'll all feel better about that, I guarantee it." She's trying to lighten the mood, but John can tell that she's serious.

*******

"You really haven't, in eight years."

"No." John twists the ring on his hand, the gold warm and worn there, dull and gleaming in the dim light from over the stove. He wants to reach for the tumbler but he knows he's already had more than enough.

"I don't know if I could do it."

"You've been doing good so far."

"It hasn't even been a year. Anyone can make it a year." Chris' voice gets gritty, like he swallowed a bag of rocks, and John can't look up at him, can't make eye contact, because he knows what that first year is like. What it's like to think about hands on your body, hands that don’t belong to you, and what it's like to only have one other person touch you for over a decade and then have them suddenly be gone, in an instant. It's like losing a limb, their ghost touch still there, even when you know they're rotting in the ground, gone forever.

There's a voice in his head wondering if that were actually true, if there wasn't something supernatural that could have brought Claudia back, could have saved her from what took her. That's what makes him pick up the tumbler from the table and threw back the booze in one giant gulp. Drowning his sorrows was always easy. Drowning the voices in his head is going to be much, much harder.

Chris' hand on his arm is arm and firm, calluses thick and familiar, like those that John himself carries. The kind owned by a man who knows his way around a gun.

"You ought to be careful, throwing back like that. They aren't home yet."

"They can take care of themselves, or didn't you hear them earlier." Stiles' tone rings in John's ears, even now, hours later, and he reaches for the bottle to refill his glass. Chris grabs it from him before he can pour. Chris holds the bottle in one hand, his other on John's shoulder, trying to keep the two apart. Then he does an odd thing, at least add in John's mind. 

Chris brings the bottle to his lips and drinks straight from it, a long, hard pull of whiskey that he drinks like it's root beer, not even a shudder of his shoulders to show that he felt it go down. He chugs it, Chris does, like water, slamming the bottle down on the table, the level of liquid now closer to empty than it was before, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, taking a deep breath.

"Feel better?" John asks with a smile, trying to hide his surprise.

"Had to catch up, didn't I?" Chris asks, lips curling into a matching grin.

"I suppose so," John answers, reaching again for the bottle. This time Chris lets him take it. This time Chris lets him pour.

*******

John wakes up to a pounding headache and the weight of another human being across his back. The headache is unpleasant. The weight is not. John groans, rolls to his left and the body on top of him rolls to the right, taking the weight with it. John tries to only crack his eyes a little but fails, the morning sun piercing his eyeballs like demons with tiny ice picks.


	6. Untitled Avengers Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite all the shit that Tony gives him, Steve is a fan of the future. The present. Whatever.

Despite all the shit that Tony gives him, Steve is a fan of the future. The present. Whatever.

People are always talking abut how shitty things are, about how it was better in the old days. Clearly, those folks either didn't LIVE in the old days, or their memories are going, because Steve sure likes penicillin and the polio vaccine and not living during the Great Depression.

Steve likes that it's easy to get a hold of the music he loves and the books he wants to read, from the library or to buy. And this digital stuff, how neat is that? He can carry a thousand books on the PHONE he can carry in his pocket. It's like some kind of science fiction dream and if Steve is going to wake up and find himself back in the war, or back in bed in his mother's apartment, sick as a dog and almost dead, he's going to live it up until he does.

Movies are something that he never could get enough of when he was a kid, always trying to find new ways to sneak into a theater because he and Bucky sure couldn't afford to buy their way in, at least not nearly as often as they would have liked. He'd made light of it, but seeing "The Wizard of Oz" in the theater was one of the best moments of his life.

Sitting next to Bucky, both slouched down in their seats, actual purchased tickets burning holes in their packets, sharing a bag of popcorn between them, salt and butter cover their fingers. Fingers that seemed to slide against each other at least as often, if not more so, then they were actually taking bites.

They laughed and jumped and cried a bit, together in the darkness, then pretended that none of it had happened when the lights went up and the curtain came down. They laughed and joked about what it would be like to meet the Munchkins, or to have to fight off a flying monkey, or to be the Tin Man. But they didn't talk about the popcorn, or their fingers, or how good it felt to be that close, practically sharing each other's air as they took it all in.

It was the first movie Steve owned in this new world, courtesy of one Tony Stark, who bought it and left it on the kitchen table in the apartment he'd put together for Steve. Tony, who wouldn't know subtlety if it kicked him in the nuts, had done a pretty decent job of designing the space, almost as if he'd known Steve his whole life.

And Steve guesses that he kind of did, what with Howard obsessed with finding him in the ocean, even if it was just the plane. Tony'd shown Steve the notebooks and the albums, and the research that Howard'd done, trying to put together what Steve would have done, how he would have acted on that plane. Where he could have, would have, should have ended up, under the water. 

Tony's trying to buy Steve's friendship and Steve's smart enough to know that he can't TELL Tony that he can't be bought, because Tony's feelings will be hurt. Steve's been on ice for 70 years but he's not an idiot. He knows what that's like and no sir, he's not going to be the one to slap Tony in the face like that.

So Steve tries to get Tony to do things that don't take money. Which is difficult, because when you have money, you can find all sorts of ways of spending it, especially on people you want to like you. Steve thinks, though, that if he stops fighting it, it'll be like giving up on something important.

Like Tony's spent his whole life with people liking him because of his money and not knowing if there was anything else to it, wondering if they liked who he was as a person.

Steve thinks Tony is pretty funny, even if Tony thinks that, too. He thinks that Tony is smart in a lot of ways, not just with science and engineering. He thinks Tony would love the opportunity to be someone else, someone who isn't on guard all the time, that isn't worried that people are all phonies who aere out to get him. 

(Yeah, Steve did read the copy of "The Catcher in the Rye" that was on his bookcase, more than likely picked out by Tony or Pepper. He's in the know. What he'll never admit, at least to Tony, at least not yet, is how it wasn't "Catcher" that broke him, made him weep on the floor for hours, it was "To Catch A Mockingbird". He'd lived that year, had lived through some of those things, some of those people, had recognized himself and his world in those pages, and saw the tragedy from a place that no one else on his team could, all of them born after the Civil Rights Act and MLK Jr., still young at the end of apartheid. Every time he thinks about that book, though, he thinks about how much Bucky would've loved it, would have ripped through it and talked about it and tried to find a way to take action afterwards, because he was just that kind of person. Steve wants, more than anything, to cry about that stupid book with Bucky. Maybe that's the thing he won't share with his team. Maybe that's the thing he's pretty sure they already know.)

He's also listened to the albums on the shelf, the large records on the deceptively new record player. Deceptive in that it looked like it had come out of the front window of Macy's in 1938 but the little things, like a Bluetooth connection and a connection port for smartphones and computers, make it clear that it had been made in the past few years or so.

There's a nice selection, some from his day, some from slightly later, and even some recent releases that happen to be on vinyl. Steve doesn't want to know if Tony had them pressed on vinyl just for him, because that would be too much. Just... too much.

Steve likes Elvis Presley. He likes the rawness in his earlier work and how he could go from smooth crooner to dark and kind of nasty within the same song.

Bucky would have liked the guy, that was for sure, would have wanted one of his suits and would have tried that hairstyle for a least a few weeks before giving it up for something else.

That's the other thing. The thing Steve doesn't want to think about but does, actually, think about all day, every day.

What Bucky would think of the future. What he would like listening to, what movies he'd deem fit to see in the theater and which one's they'd just download to watch on the couch, what cars he'd think were worth spending their enormous back pay on, what ladies- Steve has to stop thinking about it.

Thinking about Bucky with the ladies.

Because he sure as shit hadn't been with Steve.

Steve had wanted him, oh yes, had he wanted. With everything in him, he'd wanted, but he'd never said a word.

They'd gotten close, more times that Steve wanted to think about, because as much as they had gotten close, they had never crossed the line and it's that line that ultimately made all the difference.

So Steve thinks about Bucky, about what he'd like, what he wouldn't, what he'd say to Steve and what he'd do with his hands and his mouth, to and with Steve, and it gets him through the day.

Until one day, it doesn't.

***

The weird thing was, Tony hadn't really thought about Cap as a PERSON. He'd been an idea for so long, and then something that was much, much larger than life, that it had completely slipped his mind that Cap was actually Steve, and that Steve had had friends and relative and lovers and enemies all through his life. Even before he became the towering example of American might that he was.

After he was pulled from the ice, after the Battle of New York, Steve refused to stay at the tower. He kept his own place in DC. He was a sad panda in Tony's eyes, all mopey and depressed. And Tony was convinced that Steve had actual, legit, chemical depression, not that he'd ever get Steve to do anything about it. Maybe because in his heart of hearts, Tony knew that he was suffering from the same thing.

Steve always seemed uptight, a stick in the mud, afraid to have fun and let go a little. Tony would pick and prod at him, trying to get a reaction, and most of the time he got the same one.

A scowling Steve, some kind of sharp remark with maybe a few old bits of stereotypical slang thrown in for good measure, and some kind of look down Steve's nose that made Tony feel like he'd been caught slapping a nun's ass or something. 

Tony tried watching all the news reel footage that his father had saved, and Tony had digitized despite all of his complaints about his father's obsession, Tony held the same one even if he would never verbally admit it. And then he watched the home video (of sorts, something Howard had made on his own, just for fun) that his father had made from his time with the OSS and Cap and Peggy Carter.

And it was there that Tony got his first glimpse of the real Steve. The funny Steve who laughed at jokes, played pranks, and made silly faces. The Steve that would play around with other people, horse around like he didn't weight three hundred pounds and have a grip like a gorilla.

And then the alarms went off and Tony tucked those moments away in his brain to take out and play with another day.

The day that happened was they day that Bucky- not the Winter Soldier, but honest to God Bucky Goddamn Barnes- walked into the Tower, dirty, skinny, and gaunt as a corpse, looking for Steve.

When Steve finally made it to the ground floor, his face suddenly as pale as his pal's, visibly shaking from head to toe, Bucky looked Steve right in the eye and smiled.

"What's a guy got to do to get a cup'a joe around here, huh? You'd think we're a bunch of bums, the time this has taken. Your ma-" 

Tony'd expected some kind of explosion at the mention of Mrs. Rogers, the woman who's name Steve couldn't even seem to say, let alone tell stories about when Tony asked, and Tony got one, just not the kind he was expecting. 

Steve's face had fallen, like he was going to cry, but it turned into the biggest smile on any one real person that Tony had ever seen. And then Steve's arms were around his friend and they were hugging, like it'd been a lifetime since they'd seen one another.

Which, Tony guessed, was just about right.

***

Bucky, apparently, was the key to everything. Because after he had started regaining his memory, he remembered almost everything about Steve, the good, the bad, and the embarrassing. 

It was great to listen to. Bucky would start telling stories and Steve would get all red in the face, and close his eyes like he could just shut everything out if he tried hard enough. Which he could not.

What got Tony, though, about the details Bucky would spill was how much of an asshole Steve actually sounded like. The kind of asshole Tony would want to be friends with, for sure, because it was exactly the kind of guy that would fight for what he believed in and defend those he loved, and even those he didn't even know. It just wasn't the idea he'd grown up with, about Steve Rogers, or, well, about Cap. To be let in on the secret, to have the curtain pulled away was actually very, very cool, while at the same time so very, very weird.

Tony started to get the idea that Howard hadn't known Steve that well. They'd actually known each other, that was for sure, and they'd worked for the same secret organization, that was also true. But after all the stories Howard had spun, he was either the greatest liar known to man, hiding all the flaws inherent in a man like Steve Rogers, or he hadn't known them, not even a little.

Bucky knew them all, though, his eyes gleaming under the kitchen lights, sitting with a cup of hot coffee and a thick slice of bread (that STEVE baked, of all people) slathered in real butter from some farm upstate. Steve had taken his motorcycle up that way and had come back laden with fresh farm goods.

"Having this kind of easy access to fresh produce, well, that's not something you get over quickly. But you wouldn't know about that, I'm assuming."

"You'd think that," Tony told him, grinning but his jaw tight. "But you'd be wrong."

"What would you know about it, Stark?" Steve had frowned then, trying to figure out if Tony was just fucking with him, playing a mean joke on the guy who'd grown up poor and half starving.

"POW. Six months. Afghanistan."

"Oh, boy." Steve had said, running a hand down his face. "Put my foot in it there, didn't I."

"Ah, well, I don't look the type."

"Well, neither did I, once upon a time." Steve had given Tony a sad smile and raised his mug in a salute of sorts. "It takes all kinds, evil and villainy, and it runs them all through the ringer."

"Yeah, it does." Tony'd raised his own mug in response, and then Steve disappeared through the kitchen door and Tony didn't see him again for a few weeks.

***

Bucky walked around like he'd been the belle of the ball once, that he'd had the charm and the looks to get anyone he wanted in bed. Tony knew that look. He had that look. Bucky might still be able to pull it off, except, Bucky only had eyes for one person. Which was the shock of a lifetime to Tony, mostly because Steve only had eyes for Bucky.

It had never occurred to Tony that Steve had been mourning the loss of not just his home and his time, but of the love of his life. They'd all assumed that it was Peggy Carter, the woman he'd left behind. They'd never stopped to think about the MAN that left Cap first and broke his heart. A heart that not even Howard Stark could fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I don't remember where I was going with this but I like what is there. Might as well stick it here.


End file.
